


keep me in your skin, keep me in your chest

by impcssibleyear



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9769313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impcssibleyear/pseuds/impcssibleyear
Summary: He can’t figure it out, and he can’t put it into words, but he’s feeling something tugging in his stomach.Jealousy. Envy.aka the one where basch is forced to come to terms with certain things that have been in front of him for centuries.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i really like this pairing, and wish it was more popular. this was just a quick idea i wanted to get down, so apologies for any major grammatical errors. title comes from 'crash' by you me at six!

Stepping into the bar almost feels like stepping into another dimension. It’s bright and loud and filled with people talking to one another, and this is not the place for him. He stand by the door uncomfortably, hesitating and realizing that it’d be better for him to simply head home now to his sister. He’s not a drinker, never has been - it’s a social activity, and it requires money, after all. Two things that Basch has never enjoyed. 

But there’s a strange energy under his skin, leaving him on edge and tense and to go home in such a state would only aggravate it more. He eventually crosses the room, finding a seat isolated from almost any other patron in the bar, and orders a gin and tonic. 

Breathing slowly, he closes his eyes and tries to collect his composure, shrugging off his jacket and placing on the seat beside him - both because it’s warm in the room, and because it’s a great way to ward off anyone who might be looking to start a conversation with him. Drunkards are far too chatty for his tastes. The drink is placed in front of him, and he takes a large sip from it. It’s stronger than he would’ve guessed it to be, but he can’t remember the last time he’s had alcohol, and the strong taste on his tongue only brings up the word ‘lightweight’ into the forefront of his mind. 

He glances up from his drink, and meets eyes with a strange sitting a few chairs away. She’s all dark wavy hair and delicate bone structure, glasses sitting atop her nose. She lifts her glass to him, the dark indigo ruffled blouse she’s wearing shimmering under the bright lights of the bar. She’s beautiful, an odd feeling of reminiscence washing over him. Basch tilts his head, before he realizes that he’s staring and looks away, feeling pink in the cheeks. Must be the alcohol, he thinks, before taking another large sip. 

The glass sits in front of him empty, a moment of confusion hitting him as he realizes that he’s finish off the drink already. It’s in his best interest to pay his tab and leave, but begrudgingly he waves a hand at the bartender, motioning to his empty glass. The new drink is soon placed in front of him, to which Basch simply grunts in thanks.

The woman’s no longer looking at him, instead having busied herself with another man. She’s laughing and smiling and resting her hand on the male’s forearm. A feeling is unfurling in Basch’s chest, the usual heavy and tightness loosening, and a strange swell of emotion feels like it’s choking him. He thinks of Erika, how he misses her. Of loneliness. Of happiness. He downs another hearty sip of the drink, the warmth of intoxication flooding through him. 

“Doesn’t that chick look like Roderich? If he weren’t a dude and all.” 

A heavy hand claps down on his shoulder, a grating laugh the only thing he can hear. Rolling his eyes, he pushes the hand off and shrugs away from the contact. “Don’t you have anything better to do, Gilbert?” he poses, hunching down around his drink. The words are sticking with him, and it’s a question Basch doesn’t want to think about. Not to a woman that he finds beyond beautiful, and more importantly, has had this strange effect on his mood. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t think about that tightwad anymore.”

Gilbert just laughs loudly, throwing Basch’s jacket aside and taking a seat on the stool beside him. “Really? I thought that’s why you were staring at her and blushing like a fool.” He holds out his stein of beer, as if he’s waiting for Basch to cheers with him, but it goes unanswered. Gilbert shrugs and take a drink of his beer.

“That seat was not for you,” he growls, though he can feel that his cheeks have gone pink once again. He wasn’t staring at her for that long, Gilbert has no idea what he’s talking about. And yet, his eyes somehow find their way back to the dark haired woman. He chokes back a laugh, for the idea of her and Roderich looking similar couldn’t be more wrong. This woman is beautiful and happy and probably enjoyable to be around- which was nothing like Roderich. A nuisance, an annoyance, a pampered little primadonna. “If you care to fantasize about Roderich, please do so somewhere else.” Downing the rest of his drink, he clears his throat, and contemplates ordering another - even though his tolerance for alcohol is already low. But he’d take just about anything right now to clear the thoughts of Roderich from his head, more of them clouding his mind than they probably have in the past one hundred years. 

Gilbert just grins obnoxiously, before waggling his brows. “As if I need to fantasize about it.” 

Basch opens his mouth, ready to express his annoyance with the other nation again, but his mind blanks as Gilbert’s words register with him. His brows are no longer furrowed, but raised in confusion. The idea of Roderich consorting with Gilbert, of all people, is impossible to picture. Not that Basch should care. He doesn’t care. He couldn’t care any less. 

“You’re lying. He despises you,” he says, betraying his supposed image of not caring, and all Gilbert does is grin even more. Basch is tempted to smack him across the face, if only to get that knowing smile off of his face. “Whatever, I don’t care.”

Gilbert responds to that by slinging an arm over Basch’s shoulders. “That’s true, he does despise me. But you’d be surprised what a threesome could lead to. It was all Elizaveta’s idea,” he points out, before shrugging his shoulders. “For having such a stick up his ass, he really unwinds in the sheets.”

Anger clouds his vision, and he curls his hand into his fist to stop himself from hitting Gilbert. He can’t figure out why he’s feeling so angry, this has nothing to do with him. It’s not as if he cares about Roderich anymore - but listening to Gilbert speak about Roderich in such a way leaves Basch angry. As if he needs to stick up for him. If anyone gets to talk shit about Roderich, it’s Basch and Basch alone. He deserves it.

Gilbert is eyeing him, something strange in his expression. Basch unclenches his hand, before reaching for his wallet, furiously rifling through it to try and find the money to leave on the bartop. This is what he gets for breaking his habit, for not going right home to Erika. “For someone who doesn’t care, you’re awfully angry to hear that,” he hears Gilbert say, the annoying tone to his voice faded. “He doesn’t need you to defend his honor anymore.”

The urge to laugh is strong, because how hysterical is that. He tosses the money down on the counter, before grabbing his coat from where Gilbert has discarded of it so carelessly. “You know nothing,” is all Basch says, before he pulls on his jacket. 

At those words, Gilbert just shrugs slightly, his chin still cradled in his palm. “Again, probably true,” he starts before getting to his feet as well, grabbing his empty beer stein. “But you know, I like to think I’m pretty intuitive. And it’s terribly obvious that you’re still in love with him.” 

What he says doesn’t really have any impact on Basche, though it should. It should make him laugh, make him angry, make him annoying. Anything. Any emotion. But all he can do is cough slightly, air stuck in his chest. His cheeks feel red and hot - and definitely not from the liquor - and he turns and leaves as quickly as possible without another word.

* * *

 

He punches his fist against the wall in the shower, angry. Angry with Roderich and angry with Gilbert. Angry with himself too, for closing himself off from Erika for the rest of the night, ashamed of his lack of composure and the strong smell of alcohol still radiating off of him. She deserved better than to have to see him in such a state.

With a frustrated grunt, Basch pounds his palm against the wall of the shower once again. It’s just sitting there under his skin - the negative energy swirling like a dark cloud. He can’t figure it out, and he can’t put it into words, but he’s feeling something tugging in his stomach.

_Jealousy._

_Envy._

Jealous, of Gilbert. Envious that he would’ve wanted to be with Roderich like that. He lets out another yell in anger, but he can’t deny it this time. He is envious, and it disgusts him. He can’t believe he still cares about Roderich, no matter how much he might try to pretend that he doesn’t. 

But it’s like Roderich has invaded his senses now, gotten under his skin and won’t let go of the hold that he has over Basche. 

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the wet hair out of his face, stepping back underneath the shower and letting the hot water hit him. It’s not fair, that he has to be the one to carry this weight of caring about Roderich still. Wanting him. Especially knowing fully well that this is not a feeling that is requited.

He’s wasting water. But the shower is a nice distraction from everything else on his mind, and his entire body feels tense. Just a few more minutes, he says to himself, he’ll feel better after the shower. A thought passes through his mind, one that he hesitates on before giving in and slowly wrapping a hand around his cock, running his thumb over the head.

This isn’t new to him, for ever since he’s adopted Erika, he’s used the privacy that he has in the shower to get off. Hopefully this will relieve the tension that seems to be suffocating him. 

As he begins to move his hand in slow and careful motions, he’s trying to picture anything else but the one image that keeps invading his thoughts. But it’s fruitless, as thinking about a dark head of hair and violet eyes staring up at him only seems to make him harder.

He hates himself, he thinks, but he doesn’t stop. His hand continues the rhythmic motions, picturing everything that he wants but can’t have.

He hates himself. 


End file.
